Starry Night

This post is not about actual stars, I should say that right now (You can't really see the stars here most of the time, too much pollution of the light and normal fossil fuel varieties. And especially right now during the rainy season, this is doubly impossible). It is, in fact, about my class this morning, in which I attempted to explain a few centuries of Western art to my class.

I exaggerate a little. I had actually done most of the explaining the class before, along with a crash course in art criticism (What do you see in this painting? How does it make you feel?). It's impossible to get too technical, because honestly their English skills, for the most part, aren't up to it. Not their fault, really, more the fault of an overzealous administration whose expectations are waaaaay too high. And they seem to know that they're too high? And be okay with it anyway? But at the very least I tried to teach them some vocabulary with which to talk about art, and explain certain artistic periods in as simple language as possible. I utterly failed when it came to postmodernism, but you know, I don't think the world will implode because of it. I doubt any of my students will soon be facing a British monster who does not understand Vietnamese and will only spare their lives if they can define postmodernism. I actually have no idea what their background in art is like, because when I ask about it they just give me blank stares. It seems like some students are interested in it, and so already knew some stuff, and some aren't interested at all.

For today's class I set up a kind of "museum" in that I printed out a bunch of pictures of famous and semi-famous paintings that I thought might interest them, ranging all the way from the Mona Lisa to a self portrait by Frida Kahlo (They thought it was a painting of a man. Frida might actually be happy about that?). Because most places here print in black and white, I also later on projected the images of the paintings from a computer onto the wall so that they could see the painting in color. The students had to pick one and play art critic with it, talking about what was in the painting, why they chose it, how it made them feel, what they think it meant or was trying to do. Questions like that. Nothing too crazy. Some of my students came up with awesome stuff, and because I'm not really a student of art history (not European art, at least) there was no voice in the back of my head yelling "No! They've got it all wrong! Correct them! That's not what this painting is about at all!" After all, this was an exercise in using language related to art, not an actual art history lesson. When talking about Picasso's The Old Guitarist, one student said something along the lines of "When I see him, I feel very sad and lonely. I think he is poor and alone and has no friends, and the only thing he can use to express his soul is his guitar". Another student suggested that maybe American Gothic was about a couple who had lots of problems that they were powerless to solve and so they worried a lot (I have no idea what that painting is actually supposed to be about, I'll admit it). It's clear that they have many great ideas, they're just held back by language and by how shy they can be.

That having been said, my students are not as as cripplingly shy as I thought they would be. I can get them to speak. Well, I can get some of them to speak. And they start getting into something, the shy ones usually forget to be shy. But it is definitely something that gets in the way.

A side note, one of my students picked Starry Night, talking about the play of light and dark in the painting. Her reason for picking the painting was that it reminded her of a song she liked, called "Vincent". My brain exploded! "That song is about the Vincent who painted this painting!" I exclaimed perhaps a little too loudly. She just nodded politely at me. Later, after class, I asked her about it and she said that the song (it's by Don Mclean) isn't really known in Vietnam, but that she had heard it in a movie whose name I wrote down and have since misplaced. I was totally floored that she knew this song, especially since I had actually been considering basing a lesson around it for next week. It's slow enough that I think they can catch all the words, and we could have a discussion about the lives of artists, etc., but I've since nixed the idea because it isn't that much fun to sing along to. The students here love singing along to songs, and doing so would help with their pronunciation. So I'll just have to find something else! Hopefully something that has to do with art. Suggestions are welcome.

Che, It's a Thing

So when I was in Argentina, "che" was a thing that people said all the time, sort of like we say "like" all the time, but it didn't seem to mean a heck of a lot. HERE, however, che is THIS. I have not yet decided if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I had my first one very recently. It came in a tallish glass with ice, and milk that might have been soy or rice milk, and there were peanuts, and what I thought was corn but turned out to probably be lotus seeds, and then something gelatinous and chewy that was rumored to have been made from grapefruit peel but I really don't see how a grapefruit peel could have produced those gooey gummy worm type things. I sort of enjoyed it, but not enough to actually be able to finish it. Even the milk itself was kind of syrupy and gloopy, and in general was very unsettling, even if the flavor was good (this is going to be a theme, I think...good taste, unsettling texture).

I'm writing about this because I am at a cafe right now, and I ordered what seemed to be a pretty innocuous iced strawberry milk beverage. I was pretty excited for it, and proud of myself for stepping outside of the cafe and sinh to (fruit shake) box that most people stick to when they go to cafes here (although I do love me a good chanh da...iced lemonade, basically, but it's more like a caipirinha that they forgot to put alcohol into). Anyway, I get this thing, and it is NOT just an iced strawberry milk beverage. It has peanuts. And something gooey. And vaguely tastes like cheese maybe? Maybe? I would take a picture, but I forgot my camera, which I really should start bringing everywhere because you never know when something like this is going to happen. Anyway, I am going to gather my strength and see what comes of this. I should have just stuck to cafe.

UPDATE: Upon further reflection, I realized that the peanuts with the strawberry are just kind of like a PB&J so I shouldn't be too weirded out. Still tastes a bit like cheese, though.

Bikes and Classes

Today as I was biking to the store a student of mine biked up next to me and greeted me with the customary “Teacher!” which is what most of my students call me. We chatted as we biked for a bit, and she mentioned that it was very hot out today. I agreed whole-heartedly (it was at least 90 degrees and very humid). She asked me why, if I thought it was hot, I wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt like she was. I was lost for words. I tried saying “but that would just make me hotter!” but I knew that she would be confused, because many people in Vietnam (girls, especially) not only wear long sleeves to keep their skin lighter, but also because it is supposed to keep one cooler. I can almost accept that, I encountered people in Israel with a similar point of view, however, I cannot accept that a sweatshirt of all things would actually help with the heat. Sweatshirts do happen to be very popular here with girls, though, so maybe it’s something that I should give a try?

I should probably make it known: I LOVE biking around this city. I don't get particularly nervous anymore, because I've realized that for the most part people actually know what they're doing, so as long as you don't do anything crazy yourself, there shouldn't be a problem. And there really aren't too many cars, just motorbikes, which don't go as fast as your typical motorcycle. I feel like the coolest person in the world when I'm zipping around on my bike. So cool, you guys.

Side note, I actually had three students swoop up next to me on their bikes while I was riding mine today. This is only odd because it happened so many times in one day whereas before it hasn't happened much at all. However, if you think about the sheer number of students I teach in a week, and the fact that everybody pretty much hangs around the same parts of town, it isn't too strange. I teach probably over 300 students a week. That's right, you heard me. So one of them finding me while I'm biking along probably isn't that weird.

For the record (I don't think I've ever actually said this on the blog before) I teach five different university classes. Two of these classes are Speaking and Listening 2 (also known as Broadcast English? Why does my class have two names?) for sophomores. S+L classes meet once a week, for about 2 and a half hours, and one class has around 60 students while the other has about 45. I also teach 3 Pronunciation classes for freshmen, each of which has at least 60 students, if not more. These classes can be rough because the freshmen have not had much experience listening to spoken English or even speaking it themselves, so I think they get about half of what I say. I also teach three nights a week at a private tutoring center, preparing students for a test called the IELTS (International English Language Testing System) which students typically take so that they can study at English speaking universities. Each of these classes has around 20ish students. So...math, it's a thing. That all adds up to a lot of students. A whole lot.

9/11

I had a different blog entry that I was hoping to post soon, but I thought today I'd write a little impromptu one, brought on by the fact that I've been talking to so many Vietnamese people who have asked me about this 10 year anniversary of the attacks, which was surprising to me. I don't know if it ought to be or not, but until another staff member at the university mentioned a few days ago that Sunday was 9/11, the thought hadn't occurred to me (this might be because my brain hadn't yet processed the fact that it was now September instead of August, but oh well). Since then I've had a few more Vietnamese people talk to me about it, especially when they hear that I'm from New York. One man even asked if I was going back to New York for the anniversary!

I've brushed most of these encounters away, because while they are well intentioned, the interactions are usually a somewhat superficial questioning, as in, these people seem to feel that they have a duty to mention 9/11 and ask about it. However, last night I met the student of an American friend of mine (who has chosen Clark Kent as his English name) who, after the usual conversation starters (where are you from, what do you do, how long are you in Vietnam for) looked at me and said "I am very sorry about what happened. Where were you that morning?" in the most sincere manner possible. It was very simple, but very touching. I think what struck me the most is that I can't remember anyone ever actually asking me what I was doing or where I was, what my experience of the day was, who wasn't actually American. Let me explain why this felt different to me. When an American asks "what were you doing when the towers fell?" it is an opportunity to explore our mutual experience of that day. We are acknowledging mutual suffering and the sense of community that results. When I am asked by a non-American about that day, the selfless desire to hear about the event and how it affected me, and the compassion that is coming from someone who was halfway across the world on that day moves me in a different way. While I know from having talked to people while I was in Argentina that people in other countries felt affected by 9/11 as well, the fact that they are still displaying compassion ten years later is incredible to me.

That having been said, this is a very intense article from the NY Times that goes through that day using the recollections of various New Yorkers:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/08/us/sept-11-reckoning/escape.html?_r=1&hp